


Baby's On Fire...

by Dextrousleftie



Category: Gravitation
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff and Humor, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5934804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dextrousleftie/pseuds/Dextrousleftie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of humorous drabbles about Shuuchi's attempts at cooking, and Yuki's thoroughly understandable exasperation with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The internationally famous pop star Shindou Shuichi stood in the kitchen, glaring at his evil nemesis. His huge violet eyes glimmered with tears, and his lower lip stuck out and wobbled a bit. His slim body trembled with upset. He thrust out a dramatic finger, pointing in accusation, as he wailed loudly: “I hate you! I hate you!”

The object of his non-affection for once wasn’t his surly lover, one Yuki Eiri. Instead, it was the gleaming stainless-steel appliance that was usually used to cook food both on and inside of. Usually being the optimal word here. Where one Shindou Shuichi was concerned, that function of this appliance did not apply. Nothing recognizable as food had ever emerged from the depths of the oven or off the stovetop when Shuichi cooked, no matter how many times the little singer tried to practice this particular skill. And this time was pretty much par for the course. Shuichi sniffled as he had to admit defeat once more. His evil nemesis had emerged victorious once again from their most recent battle. His shoulders slumped as he conceded the win to the gleaming stainless-steel behemoth hunkered before him. 

He covered his face with his slim hands as he began to cry in earnest. This woeful sobbing actually penetrated into the bastion of peace and quiet known as Yuki Eiri’s study, for the writer had his door propped open. He looked up from his laptop as the sound of heartbroken crying reached his ears. He frowned. Why was his little idiot weeping? Usually it was something that he himself had done to cause the pink-haired ball of fluff to turn into a fountain. But Shuichi had, in fact, been remarkably quiet for the last few hours. That in itself, he realized with a chill, was a very bad sign. When he was very busy Shuichi was actually smart enough to leave him alone, but at times like this the Baka tended to bug him every twenty minutes. He’d never in a million years admit to the bouncy moron that he actually kind of liked being pestered by his lover, since it showed him clearly that Shuichi adored him. The singer couldn’t get enough of being with him, and Eiri was secretly flattered by that. 

But there had been no Shuichi in his office door for over an hour. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, walking out into the living room. He’d better go and see what had happened to reduce a certain pop singer to tears this time. His excellent hearing led him unerringly into the kitchen, where he was horrified to see a huge mess covering the table and counters. Sticky pink glop covered almost every surface, including clinging to the inside of a large mixing bowl. Flour coated the floor and table liberally, making it look like it had snowed in his kitchen. Worse, he could distinctly smell smoke. And in the middle of it all, crying as though his heart were breaking, stood a disconsolate Shuichi.

Yuki tried to be dispassionate as he looked at his lover. More of the pink stuff clung to one of Shuichi’s cheeks, complementing his cotton candy-colored hair. Except that that vivid pink stuff was now dusted with flour as well, making the singer appear to be rapidly aging. The writer closed his eyes and sighed. “Shuichi,” he said, somehow reining in his temper with a huge effort.

Those big eyes, glossy with tears, lifted to his face. “Y-Yuki!” the singer cried, hurling himself on to his lover regardless of the mess he left down the front of Yuki’s clean shirt and trousers.

 

“Get off!” the writer said, pushing the Baka away as he glared down at the pink glop and flour that now covered him as well.

“Gomen, Yuki!” the singer cried, his hand flying to his mouth. 

With a Herculean effort, Yuki somehow didn’t end up strangling his little idiot on the spot. “Before I kill you,” he drawled, “Why don’t you tell me what happened here? Where the hell did this mess come from? What did you do this time?”

Now Shuichi began to look rather sheepish and worried. He put his hands behind his back as he circled a bare toe on the flour-dusted tiles of the kitchen floor. “Well, I just wanted to make you something special, Yuki,” he said unhappily, not looking at his taller lover. 

“Something special,” the writer repeated slowly. “For me,” he continued flatly. “May I ask just what it is? Or was, rather?” he added as he wrinkled his nose at the continuing smell of smoke filling the kitchen.

There was a mumble from the direction of the bent pink head. “Excuse me?” Eiri said sharply. “Could you repeat that?”

“It was a cake, Yuki,” sniffled his pink-haired terror, still without looking up. “A strawberry cake. I bought fresh strawberries to put on top of it and everything. B-But it burned…” he went on in a trembling voice, sadness laced with anxiety in the high tones.

Eiri sighed again. How the hell could he remain angry at his thoughtful little moron, even if the singer’s intentions had gone drastically awry? At least Shuichi had tried to do something nice, even if it had gone very wrong as usual. “Okay,” he said aloud. “Just clean up this mess and we’ll forget that this little incident ever happened.”

Shuichi perked up immediately, looking up at Yuki through his wild pink bangs. He beamed. “I will, Yuki! Thanks!” he chirped, and the writer smiled a little. His little Baka was just so cute, even when he was causing messes and havoc. He started to leave, to go put on clean clothes and return to work, but just then he noticed that the smell of smoke had intensified even more. That was because little tendrils of black smoke were drifting up from the oven and streaming toward the ceiling. A feeling of apprehension shivered down Yuki’s spine.

“Shuichi?” He said grimly.

“Yeah, Yuki?” the singer replied, wondering what had caused the resurgence of that tone of voice. Just when it had seemed like everything was over and he hadn’t screwed up completely this time…

“What did you do with the cake?” The writer said tonelessly.

Shuichi’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “What do you mean, Yuki?” he asked uneasily.

The writer made an eloquent gesture with his hands. “Did you chuck it in the trash, or maybe the sink, or throw it out the window?”

“Uhhh…” a look of visible panic raced over the singer’s pointed face. 

A headache, composed partially of smoke and partially of annoyance, began to throb at Eiri’s temples. “Please,” he said stonily, “Please do not tell me that you checked it and then left it in the oven.”

The guilty expression on the pink-haired idiot’s face answered his question without the singer having to say anything. “At least tell me that you turned the oven off,” Yuki growled. Silence. “Arggh! Shuichi, you are hopeless!” Eiri said as he started toward the oven to turn it off himself.

The singer began to cry again because Yuki had been mean to him. The writer almost made it to the oven, which was now throwing off a lot of black smoke, but before he could reach it the stove did something even more dramatic than Shuichi’s histrionics: It burst into flames.

 

 

A half hour later, Yuki Eiri sat on his couch in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest and a cigarette clenched firmly between his teeth. Smoke trickled out the side of his mouth as he glowered at the far wall of the apartment. He was still covered in a light dusting of flour and strawberry cake mix, which had been joined by little bits of fire-retarding foam from the fire extinguisher. The kitchen was now floating in a sea of that shit, as well as the mess from before that Shuichi hadn’t yet cleaned up before the stove went up like that girl in the movie Firestarter. He made no move to go deal with the mess, nor did he take a shower or change his clothing just yet. He needed a cigarette to calm himself down, or he really WOULD kill a certain pink-haired terror this time. He now had to replace a fairly expensive appliance, his kitchen was full of smoke and looked like a war zone, and he had pink glop sticking to the front of his shirt.

He ignored the pounding on the front door, and the wails of : “Yuki! Let me in, Yuki!” This was the last time, the absolute last time that he let Shindou Shuichi into his kitchen alone and unsupervised. The imbecile couldn’t even pour milk on cereal without making a mess. He was going to get a big sign that read ‘Shuichi, Keep Out’, and post it beside the doorway into the kitchen. Then he’d make it clear to the little singer that if he didn’t obey that sign, he would be soundly punished. Yes, that was a plan. One he’d implement tomorrow, since he didn’t need to today. He hoped that Shuichi enjoyed sleeping in the hallway, since the only person he intended to let into the apartment was the guy who would be replacing the trashed stove…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi tries again, with more disastrous results...

The internationally famous pop star Shindou Shuichi was in full stealth ninja mode as he tip-toed silently into the kitchen. A guilty expression was on his face as he passed the sign prominently posted next to the door: ‘Shindou Shuichi is not allowed into the kitchen alone at any time. Nor is he allowed to touch the stove or the oven. EVER. Violation of these rules will bring punishment swift and sure’. 

Shuichi hated that sign. It made him mad that Yuki had put it up elaborately, all the while glaring at his lover over his shoulder. Sure, he’d destroyed the oven the last time he’d tried to cook, but that was no reason to be so MEAN…he’d pouted for days, with no effect on Yuki whatsoever. Except to make the writer look rather smug, since he knew that Shuichi was following the rules laid out in the sign if he was still pouting. This just made Shuichi madder, and he was determined to not only break those rules but to prove that he could be trusted with that scariest of household appliances. 

Which is why he was sneaking into the kitchen tonight, almost three weeks after the strawberry cake incident, with a plastic bag in one hand. His musician’s ears were tuned for any sound coming from the study, sounds telling him that Yuki was taking a break from writing. The door was firmly closed, showing that the blonde was deep into his craft and would not appreciate any interruptions from his little pink haired lover. Which was fine with Shuichi. Now was the perfect time to prove that he could be trusted to use the stove properly, and that he actually COULD cook, by golly! Stealthily he slid through the shadows, arriving at last in front of his brand-new, gleaming-silver nemesis. This one was the replacement for the one he’d burned up a few weeks ago, and its aluminum burnish still glowed in the faint light coming from the living room. 

Shuichi licked his lips a little as he set the bag on the counter and reached inside of it. He pulled out, with a flourish, a single item – it looked like a cheap aluminum pan covered in bright foil. It was, in fact, a Jiffy Pop popcorn, because the singer loved Jiffy popcorn and would often wheedle Yuki into making it for him when they watched movies together. But tonight Shuichi, The Stealth Master, intended to make the buttery, salty treat for himself – and by himself, as well. With no help from the irritable writer tapping away in his study. He intended to prove that he could do this, and then he’d rub Yuki’s nose in it triumphantly. :Put up stupid signs to keep me outta the kitchen, will ya?: he thought as he carried the Jiffy Pop container over to the shining silver behemoth and warily studied the controls on top of it. 

The new stove looked so futuristic that it could have been something designed by the space program. It had all kinds of confusing dials and buttons and switches, all of which Yuki effortlessly negotiated whenever he cooked. But Shuichi could barely read music, let alone figure out something as complex as this electronic gadget. He bit his lip a little, but determination flared in the depths of his violet eyes. He would not be stopped! He was a famous rock star, his albums had sold millions of copies, and he could do this! So he put out a trembling hand and turned the dial marked ‘temp control’ on the face of the stove. Then he flipped a few switches, before he finally discovered by accident the dial that that turned on one of the burners. He wanted to whoop with glee when the burner began to heat up. He’d done it after all! Boy, would Yuki be surprised when he showed the writer the tasty, well popped results of his efforts!

He set the Jiffy Pop container on the burner. From watching Yuki do this before, he knew that you were supposed to leave the foil on while it popped. And you were supposed to move the container around to help heat the corn evenly, too. So he began to move it around vigorously, humming a tune under his breath as he did so. Soon his popcorn would be done! Then he’d display it to his lover, after which he’d watch a movie while eating it. And all the while he’d be basking in the smug sense of satisfaction he’d receive from actually accomplishing his goal where cooking was concerned for once. 

 

Alas for Shuichi, he heard the unmistakable sound of the study door opening. Horror seized him, and panic as well. Deserting his Jiffy Pop, he knelt down swiftly on the floor so that he would be hidden by the counter. Not that this would help if Yuki came into the kitchen for a beer or something…he prayed to all the Gods that were listening for that not to happen, because he knew that Yuki would be furious with him for breaking the rules. He didn’t want to imagine what the writer would do to him as punishment. But fortunately for the sweating, trembling pop star, he heard footsteps make for the bathroom, and then the bathroom door closed with a thunk. He breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t move from his position. Yuki might still make a foray into the kitchen, after all. It occurred to him that he might be able to hide the evidence before that happened, and he lunged hurriedly to his feet to move the Jiffy Pop off the stove and turn off all the dials and switches. He might still be able to get out of this…

 

 

But before he could do so, he heard the horrifying sound of the bathroom door opening once again. He hit the deck, trying not to breathe as he listened desperately for the sound of footsteps headed for the kitchen. After a harrowing ten minutes or so, he heard the study door slam closed once again. Yuki had returned to his muse. With a sigh of relief and happiness, Shuichi scrambled to his feet.

The Jiffy Pop, meanwhile, had been cooking away on the burner that Shuichi had accidentally turned on to ‘high’. With no one to move it, the popcorn in the container was not cooking evenly. It was burning, instead. And the top swelled and swelled menacingly, growing bigger and bigger even as smoke began to rise off of the buttery, salty treat in alarming trickles. The pink-haired singer smelled that smoke and froze, panic once more seizing him. As one in a bad dream, he peered intently through the gloom of the unlit kitchen toward the stove top. He saw that the Jiffy Pop bag was now enormous, and that the entire aluminum pan was now jiggling and trembling on the burner. A shiver of apprehension ran through the pink-haired singer as he stared wide eyed at the fiendish looking popcorn monster growing larger and larger on the stove top…

He lunged across the room to grab a hot pad and pull the Jiffy Pop off the stove, and to also turn off the burner. But in an extension of that bad dream, he didn’t quite make it. The now gyrating popcorn began to make alarming hissing noises, and just as Shuichi’s hand touched the hot pad, the Jiffy Pop container…popped. Actually, it exploded, hurtling burning hot (and burned) kernels of popcorn in every direction, like a sort of snack-treat machine gun. Shuichi forgot stealth and covering this up as he was pelted with tiny red hot pieces of Jiffy Pop. He yowled in pain, loudly and on key, as he threw up his hands to cover his face against the rain of burning kernels that fell on him. He backed up desperately, blinded by the gloom in the kitchen and the fact that he’d mostly closed his eyes, while his pink hair singed in several places and his hands and arms were burned in dozens of places by the fall of the destructive and deadly shower of popcorn. 

The study door crashed open again, and footsteps ran down the hallway. But Shuichi didn’t care by this time. He was in considerable pain, burned and blistered in places, and in such misery that he didn’t see the now nearly empty Jiffy Pop container leap in the air like a rocket. It whizzed across the room like an aluminum bullet, and there was a crash and tinkle as it took out something made of glass. The light snapped on just about then, and an angry voice yelled: “What the fuck is going on in here?”

Shuichi didn’t answer that voice. It had all gone most pathetically, woefully wrong…AGAIN. He sank to his knees, his hands covering his eyes, and began to weep in a silent mixture of pain and humiliation. The writer, poised in the doorway of his kitchen, stared down at the miserable hunched figure of his lover, seeing Shuichi’s shoulders shaking with his silent sobs. Usually, when the pop star cried it was loudly and with much affectation. He’d hurl himself onto Yuki, blubbering and sniffling, looking for love and sympathy. But this time he didn’t even seem aware of the writer’s angry presence in the doorway. He cried as though his heart was breaking, and Yuki found himself unable to stay as pissed as he would have liked to have been. 

“Shu?” he said, walking toward the huddled figure of his lover. There was no response. The blonde knelt down next to the pink-haired singer, reaching out to touch a stiff shoulder. “Shuichi?” there was genuine concern in the writer’s voice now, for this touch would normally have been the signal for the singer to hurl himself violently into Yuki’s arms and wail out his sorrows. “What’s the matter?” he didn’t know quite what to do in this situation, so he settled for patting the stiff shoulder under his hand comfortingly. 

“It’s all gone wrong again,” Shuichi said in a miserable little voice from under his folded arms. “And now you’re going to be mad at me, Yuki. And I hurt…” he sobbed, for the blisters on his skin were really throbbing now. 

That sad little voice made Yuki’s stomach churn. “Shu,” he said as gently as was possible for him, “I’m not mad at you, I promise. I’m just worried. How badly are you hurt?” 

Shuichi lifted his head from his arms at this tender enquiry. “I got burned,” he snuffled, holding out his arm as he looked up at Yuki out of woeful wet eyes. The writer was horrified to see blisters rising in places on that lovely white skin. He got to his feet, and held out a hand to the singer.

 

“Come on, Shu,” he coaxed, “I’m taking you to the hospital. Some of those look pretty bad.” Hesitantly Shuichi uncurled himself, and placed a slim hand in his lover’s. Yuki drew him to his feet and led him toward the door of the apartment so that they could collect their shoes to make the trip to the hospital. 

 

 

In the car, the write looked at his miserable lover, hunched away from the leather of the seat on the passenger’s side of the car. “Shu,” he said quietly. “This is why I want you to stay out of the kitchen. Or at least not go in there by yourself. You could have hurt yourself really bad this time. And I…I don’t want anything to happen to you,” the concern in his voice that ill covered up genuine love and affection touched the little singer deeply. He sniffled unhappily.

 

“I know, Yuki,” he replied mournfully. “I just wanted to show you that I could cook stuff on my own, cause that sign made me mad.”

“Ahh,” sudden understanding filled the writer, along with a pang of remorse. His so-called ‘humorous’ sign had been the cause of this incident, and any injuries that his lover had sustained were his fault. “I’ll take the sign down,” he said aloud, “If you’ll promise me not to go into the kitchen alone from now on. If you want to try to cook, I want to be standing by with the fire extinguisher and the first aid kit,” he made his voice teasing, and Shuichi was surprised into a giggle after a moment. He looked far happier now, in spite of the pain of his burns. 

 

“Okay, Yuki,” he said, thinking how pleasant it would be to get to have his lover around when he tried to cook once more. “I promise.” 

Please to have caused the happy light in those big violet eyes, the writer resigned himself to being the auditor of whatever horrendous accidents the little singer caused in the kitchen from now on. It was safer this way, anyway; he feared that if Shuichi ventured into the kitchen by himself again anytime soon, he’d either burn the whole apartment down or kill himself. And while he wouldn’t like to have his apartment burn down, he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to stand life without a certain little pink-haired pop star around.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another disastrous cooking attempt by our favorite pink-haired terror...

“Yuki, Yuki, Yuki!” the excited shriek penetrated the entire apartment, making a certain romance novelist cringe. If he'd been a less courageous person, Yuki Eiri night have crawled under his desk to hide from his pint-sized lover. As it was, he didn't make it to the door of his study to close and lock it in time. An excited pink ball of fluff bounced into the room under his arm, waving bags of groceries around wildly. “I got all the stuff!” Shuichi cried. “When can we do it?!”

Yuki sighed, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. “How about the seventh of never?” he muttered tiredly.

“Yuuukkkiii!!” his lover wailed, whirling around to confront the writer. “You said you would!” his amethyst eyes were filling with tears, and that deadly lower lip was trembling dangerously. 

The blonde pinched the bridge of his nose as an impending headache began to throb behind his eyes. But he knew if he kept refusing, then the little singer would make his life a living hell. And not only had he promised, he worried that if he truly refused then Shuichi would try to do it himself. And that thought thoroughly terrified him. After that last time...

“All right,” he said. “We'll have our first cooking lesson in ten minutes. Just give me time to put on my asbestos apron and grab the fire extinguisher.”

Shuichi beamed, refusing to be insulted by his words. “Great! I'll just go put this stuff in the kitchen,” he bounced back out the same way he'd come in, leaving Yuki Eiri trying to figuratively gird his loins for the horror that was coming shortly. But it had to be done. After the Jiffy Pop fiasco, he'd vowed never let Shindou Shuichi be alone in the kitchen ever again. So he'd gone slightly insane and promised to give his lover cooking lessons. What had he been thinking? He supposed that it had been the sight of the ghastly blisters rising on his small lover's white skin that had made him lose his senses. And now he had to pay the penalty for his madness. 

He entered the kitchen with a feeling of apprehension, to see groceries littering the counters. Shuichi had apparently bought at least three of everything on the list. He frowned as something caught his eye, dragging his attention away from the tight little ass displayed as the singer bent over, putting something in the refrigerator. He blinked as he reached out to pick up a glass bottle off the counter. It was labeled 'curry'. His brows furrowed. Curry? The simple recipe he was going to supervise Shu in trying out did not contain curry as an ingredient. Why had the little terror bought curry? “Baka,” he said aloud, and Shuichi straightened up so hurriedly he hit his head on the rack in the refrigerator. He squealed and clutched at his head in pain as Yuki rolled his eyes. 

“What is it, Yuki?” the singer finally asked when he could speak again, tears of pain still standing in his eyes as he held his throbbing head.

“If you're done braining yourself, could you please tell me why you bought this?” the writer held up the glass jar of curry powder.

“Oh,” the singer walked over to peer at the herb jar. “That. It was on the list,” he pulled out a crumpled, dirty piece of paper from his pocket, holding it up triumphantly. 

“No it wasn't,” Yuki snatched the piece of paper from his grasp with a grimace of displeasure for how filthy it was. He opened it, scanning the list. Nope, no curry powder. “There's no curry on here.”

A slim finger pointed to a word on the list. “There,” Shuichi replied. 

Yuki wanted to slap his forehead with one hand and say “D'Oh!” a la Homer Simpson. “That is NOT curry, Baka. That is cumin. Yes, they both have 'cu' in the word, but they are two entirely different herbs.”

“Oh,” Shuichi's face fell. “I was kinda in a rush, so I just grabbed what looked like the right bottle from the shelf...” his shoulders hunched unhappily. 

Yuki set the jar on the counter. “It's all right, Shu,” he said. “We'll just work without it. It's no big deal.” his soothing words had the right effect; the pink-haired singer brightened up again immediately. 

 

“Are you sure, Yuki?” he asked.

“Definitely. I can even find a substitute if I have to. Come on, show me what else you bought.”

They spent the next few minutes verifying that Shuichi had gotten the right ingredients for the other parts of the dish that Yuki intended to teach him to cook. When the writer was satisfied, he had the singer assemble what he needed on the butcher block while he himself fetched the cook book that he wanted. It was the most helpful one he had; it had large clear full-color pictures, and the wording was simple. Even someone like Shuichi should be able to follow the directions properly, but if he couldn't Yuki himself would be standing by to correct any errors he made. And the writer would make sure that the temperature dial was set right on the oven, thus insuring that his lover didn't set the apartment(or himself) on fire. 

Finally Shuichi was ready. He'd donned a rather frilly apron with the words 'Kiss the Cook' on the front. Yuki was happy to follow these instructions, and this so distracted them that they almost forgot about the lesson altogether. Unfortunately for a certain novelist, it wasn't quite enough. The singer's tiny brain could only hold one thought at a time - and at this point, that single cogitation was about making the simple chicken dish that Yuki had picked out as his first lesson. So he finally pulled away from the writer's grip and whirled around back to the butcher block. “What do I do next, Yuki?” he asked eagerly.

The blonde could think of a few things – and none of them actually involved cooking right at that moment. That butcher's block was really sturdy, after all...he sighed. “You're going to need to chop some things” he said grimly. He SO did not want to put a sharp knife in Shuichi's hands. The very thought made him sweat. 

“Okay!” chirped the singer, as though he sliced and diced vegetables every day of his life. 

Yuki walked over, slowly and reluctantly, to fetch a knife from the drawer. He prayed fervently as he carried this implement over to his lover, gritting his teeth as he gingerly handed it to the singer. “Start with the celery,” he said tightly. “Dice them fine.”

Shuichi grabbed a handful of celery stalks and laid them on the cutting board. Holding the knife in an awkward manner that made the hairs stand up on the back of Yuki's neck, he whacked at the vegetables as though he were in serial killer training. He did a very good job of slaughtering the poor hapless celery – it was near mush after a moment. Yuki said loudly: “That's enough, Shuichi!”

The little singer stopped what he was doing and looked at the writer over his shoulder. “Did I do it right, Yuki?” he asked hopefully.

The writer looked at the green mess on the cutting board. “It's fine,” he said, not wanting to precipitate a bout of waterworks by telling his lover what he really thought of Shuichi's culinary skills. As the singer beamed at him, he deftly took the knife from slim hands and carried it over to the sink. “You'll need a clean one for your next me...err...ingredient,” he said. “We'll try onions next.”

Okay, onions had been a bad choice as an ingredient, the writer acknowledged to himself a few minutes later. Tears were streaming down the pink haired singer's face, and he obviously couldn't see very well anymore. He kept making swipes at the vegetables that were missed or near misses, and were coming perilously close to his own fingers instead. Yuki didn't want to startle him by trying to grab the knife from his hands, so he merely spoke slowly and calmly instead. “Stop cutting, Shu.” Then he sighed in acute relief when his tone of voice worked like a charm, for the singer stopped his rather erratic movements and blinked at his lover out of still streaming eyes. 

“We'll use those pieces,” Yuki said, not caring that some of thew onions were still in big hunks. He just didn't want Shuichi to cut at them anymore. 

“Okay...what do I do next?” the singer asked, sniffling as his nose ran from the stinging onion juice too. 

“Wipe your eyes and nose,” Yuki replied in affectionate exasperation, handing him a tissue.

The little singer did so, snorting a bit as he blew his nose. Yuki thanked the Gods that he'd picked a dish that called for deboned as and deskinned chicken breasts. He had Shuichi get out a glass cooking pan, then lay the breasts in the pan side-by-side. Shuichi hummed to himself as he followed these simple directions, pleased that everything seemed to be working out. Then the writer had the singer pour light olive oil in a bowl, and mix in the celery mush, onion chunks, and the herbs the recipe called for(except for the cumin). He made the little singer measure out the herbs carefully, since it would be very easy to add too much and have an inedible over spiced dish. He wanted Shuichi to succeed at this just as much as the singer did, because it made him feel bad to think of how wretchedly miserable his lover had been over his failure with the Jiffy popcorn and the cake before it.

“All right,” he remarked when the happy singer had carefully poured the seasoned oil and vegetables over the breasts. “Now watch me carefully, Shu. This is the temperature dial on the oven, which has to be set on 375 degrees. See me turn it to the right temp?” he demonstrated, then turned it back to 250 and stepped back. “Now you do it,” he told his little lover.

The singer warily approached the stove, which was his sworn enemy. But he'd watched what his lover had done carefully,m so was able to duplicate it. His chest visibly swelled with pride as he turned the dial back to 375 degrees. Yuki nodded. “Okay. Now we turn the oven on with this switch...” once again he demonstrated, and once again the singer imitated what he'd done. “And while its pre-heating, you set the timer so that it'll go off when its done cooking. What does it say in the cookbook about how long it should cook?”

Shuichi consulted the book, his lips moving as he ran a slim finger down until he'd found the information he needed. “Forty-five minutes,” he told Yuki.

“So you set your timer for forty-five minutes, like this,” this time the singer observed with extra care, for this part was a bit more difficult. But the writer watched him like a hawk, and nodded in satisfaction when he saw that his lover had done it right. “Now push this button, and put your dish in the oven,” he said. Shuichi did so, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in such a cute manner that it made certain parts of the writer's body stir to life. Now what, he mused lasciviously, could the two of them do while they were waiting for Shuichi's chicken dish to cook? 

The little singer straightened up triumphantly, starting to turn toward his lover. But before he could make it, a pair of strong arms closed over him and drew him up against a tall body. A thoroughly aroused tall body, he realized with a little gasp as something big and hard was pressed into the small of his back. “Shu,” Yuki murmured in a lusty tone of voice, then blew hot breath onto the back of the little singer's neck, making him shiver. “Let's do something else while its cooking, hmm?”

“Yukkiii,” the singer said, his whole body turning boneless. 

“I'll take that as a yes,” the writer said in tones of amused satisfaction, before he picked his little lover up bodily and carried him off to the bedroom without any objections from his pink-haired terror at all.

 

 

They both got so wrapped up in what they were doing(three times) that they forgot the chicken entirely for hours. And because the bedroom door was closed, neither heard the timer going off in the kitchen. It was only when the smell of smoke penetrated the bedroom that either of them recalled the fact that Shuichi was supposed to be cooking. A wail of distress arose as a naked pink-haired singer dashed out of the bedroom and down the hall into the kitchen, with a nude romance writer at his heels. Once again, black columns of smoke were rising from the oven. Shuichi plunged into the gloom in the kitchen, scrabbling for a hot pad. He grabbed at the handle of the oven, pulling to open and coughing in the cloud of black smoke that puffed up into his face. He rescued the blackened chicken(REALLY blackened) from the oven, cries of unhappiness still being torn from his throat as he set the glass dish(which was now smoke grey rather than clear) onto the butchers block. Then he burst into tears.

“Yuki!” he sobbed, throwing himself on his lover. The writer patted his bare back comfortingly. 

 

“This isn't your fault, Shu,” he crooned. “It's mine. You were doing just fine before I distracted you. This isn't because you're a bad cook. We can try again some other time, and I promise to keep my hands off of you when you do.”

A snuffling, woebegone singer looked up into his lover's worried golden eyes. “Yuki,” he said softly, just before he kissed his lover to show his appreciation for the author's kind words. He didn't care about the chicken having burned, not when his Yuki admitted that it was his fault that it had done so, not the singer's for once. That was better than perfectly cooked chicken breasts, any time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi finally manages to cook something!

Shindou Shuichi walked into the kitchen, straining his ears to hear any noises from the rest of the apartment. Never mind that he knew his lover Yuki Eiri was off talking to his agent about his latest completed manuscript – somehow how it just seemed that the writer was still in the apartment in spirit. The little singer went over to put the bags he was carrying on the kitchen counter, rummaging through them to make sure that he had everything from his list. 

Yuki had been giving him cooking lessons for several months now, and he hadn’t burned anything or set the stove on fire or made anything explode for some time now. He felt confident enough to try something on his own, and have it ready for Eiri when the writer came back from his meeting. So he’d gone through the cookbook and decided on another strawberry cake, just like the one that had caused the oven to go up in flames the first time. But this time he was determined to do it right, to bake a perfect cake and have it waiting on the counter to show to his lover when Yuki returned. His chest swelled with pride at the very thought. He could do this! He’d proved that over the last few months, working hard to learn everything that Yuki had to show him. 

He bounced over to the cupboard to begin assembling the things he needed, like a set of bowls and spatulas and measuring spoons. Finally he had everything, and the singer opened the cook book to the page he wanted. It had a full color picture of the cake, a mouth-watering photo. His cake would look just like that, the singer vowed silently to himself. Shuichi then set everything on the small table and also brought the bags over. Taking a deep breath and trying to buck up his courage, he took everything out of the plastic bags and began. 

Slowly he measured out the flour and the sugar and the butter, which he put in the microwave for ten seconds to soften it. He mixed the dry ingredients into a large bowl first, and then followed them up with the water and the eggs. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth a little bit as he concentrated, and his forehead wrinkled slightly. He was so intent on his task that he didn’t hear the door opening and closing, nor did he hear footsteps coming down the short hall as Yuki Eiri started into the kitchen to fetch himself a beer. He was brought up short by the sight of his pink-haired lover deep in the throes of baking, and he might have said something sharply except for the fact that Shuichi was utterly adorable this way. There was a dusting of flour on one cheek, and his little pink tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth. The amethyst eyes was riveted first on the cook book and then on the mixing bowl. He was wearing an apron that said: Is it hot in here, or is it just me? In bold letters. The only thing that would have made it better is if he’d only been wearing that apron. Yuki decided to suggest that the next time his little lover attempted to cook, although they probably wouldn’t get much actual cooking done when he did. At least not in the kitchen, anyway…

His lips quirked up at this thought, and the writer retreated as quietly as he’d come. He didn’t want to interrupt Shuichi at this obviously critical stage, for he knew that his little lover would be miserable if he caused another disaster in the kitchen. Even if it wasn’t his fault. So the writer went to their bedroom to change out of his suit and into more casual clothes, and then made his way into his study to begin outlining the chapters for his next book. The fire alarm or screaming would alert him if Shuichi was in trouble, but otherwise he wouldn’t go near the kitchen for awhile. Let the singer have his first solo attempt at cooking in months, even if it went bad again. He could only pray that Shuichi didn’t hurt himself, because the singer deserved this for working so hard all this time to learn how to cook properly. 

 

 

Shuichi pulled the bowl full of pink cake batter out from under the mixer, and took it over to the table where the two circular pans waited. He carefully poured the mix into the pans, his slender fingers trembling a little. He was so excited and nervous he could barely stand it. Nothing had gone wrong yet! He couldn’t believe it. Once the batter was somewhat sloppily dumped in the pans, he turned away to set up the oven. Here was the critical part – the stove was such a huge, complicated thing. And it had been his nemesis for so long…he stared at the dials and switches, and for a moment he panicked and couldn’t remember what anything did. Sweat beaded on his brow, and all the letters on various parts of the stove could have been written in Martian language for all he knew. 

But then one of them became clear - Temp Controls, it said. And then he knew what everything was again, ands he reached out semi-confidently to begin turning the various switches and dials just as Eiri had shown him. He thought he’d gotten it right, he prayed he had – he went to set the empty mixing bowl in the sink to rinse it out before putting it in the dishwasher. He let the oven warm up, and then he opened it and set the two cake pans inside. He shuddered slightly as he closed the oven door. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, stepping back and away to let the oven do its work. He couldn’t forget the way that the stove had burst into flames the first time he’d tried this. Shuichiro turned and made sure that the fire extinguisher was hanging on the wall, just in case he needed it. 

That was the longest forty-  
five minutes of Shindou Shuichi’s short life. He paced the kitchen, peering into the oven every five minutes (the door was clear glass, he knew better than to open it all the time or the cake wouldn’t cook). He sang to himself, he counted the tiles on the floor, he danced a bit, he bounced on his toes, he opened and closed all the cupboards restlessly…time seemed to have stopped completely. He watched breathlessly as the two halves of the cake began to rise a bit and turn a light pink-brown in color. He twitched like an epileptic in his eagerness for the cakes to be done…finally the timer dinged, making him jump. He took another deep breath and opened the oven door, staring for a moment at the two perfectly cooked cakes inside. Then he reached for the hot pads, not believing it, happiness welling up in him until he felt giddy….

He got one cake out, and set it on the counter to cool. Then he turned back for the other, confident now, whistling to himself under his breath. He pulled the cake out, he started to turn – and he hit a patch of flour on the floor where he’d spilled it in his fumbling attempts to measure correctly. His stocking-clad foot slid on the white powder, and went out from under him. He started to fall, and his arms windmilled helplessly as he tried to stop himself. The perfectly cooked cake flew out of his hands and flipped into the air, and he could only watch with horrified eyes as it turned a complete circle. Then it began to fall, just as Shuichi did. His butt hit the tile floor hard, and he cried out at the pain and the sight before his eyes as well. The tumbling cake had hit the counter, spun, and whacked the other cake pan hard. This pushed the other pan off the counter, and like a good little lemming the first cake went with it. The two beautifully-cooked strawberry cakes seemed to vault into the air and dove for the floor together, falling in a pink-golden heap onto the tile.

A wail of despairing grief rose up in the kitchen, as the singer voiced his misery aloud. He couldn’t believe this! He’d done it! He’d actually managed to cook those two cakes! And now they were ruined, lying in a mangled pastry heap on the floor. The Gods hated him! He covered his face with his hands and began to sob piteously as footsteps came running from the direction of Eiri’s study. The blonde appeared in the doorway, seeing Shu sitting on the floor with his hands over his face. The heartbroken sounds he was emitting told the writer that something had gone disastrously wrong yet again. He circled the table, and saw the heap of cake lying on the floor near the singer. He stared at it, and at the two pans that had spun away in either direction away from the spill. He wondered how Shuichi had actually managed this. Only his little lover could have screwed something up this spectacularly. Pity welled up in him, for it was obvious just how much hard work that the singer had put into those mangled cakes. Strawberry cakes, too. Shuichi had been making them for him. He sighed as he knelt in front of his crying lover. “Shu,” he said, putting out a hand to touch the pink locks tenderly. 

A pair of wet, miserable amethyst eyes lifted to his. “Yuki,” sniffled the singer. Then he was holding an armful of unhappy Shuichi, the little body trembling with upset. “Yuki,” the singer repeated sadly. “I screwed it up again. And they were done, Yuki! They’d finished cooking, and I didn’t mess anything up! Oh, Yuki!” this last wail rose up as the little pink-haired terror gave vent to his grief and distress over yet another culinary failure.

“It’s okay, Shu,” Yuki said, patting his lover’s back comfortingly. “You tried. And since you managed to cook them perfectly, this isn’t really a failure, its just an accident. We all have them,” he went on, not pointing out that NOBODY else had accidents quite like Shuichi, “How about we clean this mess up and try again? But this time we’ll do it together,” he added, again not pointing out that it would be safer with him to supervise.

Shuichi pulled away to look at him, the purple eyes lighting up. “I’d like that, Yuki,” he said, sniffling a little still.

 

The writer wiped a thumb under his lover’s eyes to gather the tears. “I would too,” he said, smiling encouragingly at the singer. “And once we’re done here,” he went on, eyeing the flour-smeared apron, “I suggest we retire to the bedroom to try another kind of cooking altogether.”

Shuichi gasped at the expression in the golden eyes, and scrambled quickly to his feet. “Come on, Yuki,” he said eagerly, wanting to get the baking out of the way so that he could have his ‘dessert’ afterward.

 

Later on, two cakes were cooling on the clean counter. The whipped cream frosting was ready in a covered bowl nearby, as were the cut-up fresh strawberries. There wasn’t a trace of flour or batter to be found in the spotless kitchen. Nor was there any sign of either a certain romance writer or his pink-haired singer lover, who had both adjourned to the bedroom to celebrate a successful bit of baking. Yuki Eiri was happily kissing the cook, who was wearing only that miniscule sexy apron. And since the environmental controls were set on a pleasant 70 degrees, it was definitely sure that it was Shuichi who was hot, not the room itself.

 

The End


End file.
